The Leading Man's Lies
by Tonight's The Night
Summary: "I'm the leading man. You know what they say about the leading man? He never dies." In the aftermath of the battle for Rabanastre, Vaan struggles to cope with the loss of his mentor. Balthier/Vaan. Post-game.
1. The Lies We Tell For Others

_Author's Notes:_

_Hello, everyone, and welcome! It's great to have you all reading, and I hope that this story ends up being as enjoyable to all of you to read as it was for me to write. But first, an introduction is in order. _

_Typically, when I start a story, I'll give a brief explanation of the general premise and any content warnings I expect the story to contain. In this case, both are fairly straightforward. This is a story about how Vaan deals with the events following the defeat of the Empire, particularly his grief over Balthier's apparent death. It will line up with the events of the epilogue, but will not follow the plot of _Revenant Wings_ (mostly because I haven't had a chance to play that one). Additionally, the story will have a romantic Vaan/Balthier slant, though for the most part, you can choose to ignore this if you wish, as the central focus of the story is about grief, reunion, and forgiveness, rather than romance. In certain fandoms, I'm known for taking the most unlikely of pairings and making them seem plausible, and that is, in a way, what I hope to accomplish here. I expect this story to be fairly short (by my standards, that means less than 50K, which I understand doesn't qualify as "short" by most definitions). I've already written out the first six chapters, so updates will be steady for a time._

_As for content warnings, there will be a bit of violence, some gore, and very possibly a sex scene once we get far enough into the story (though this will most likely be optional if you're really not into that sort of thing). Possibly some darker themes, as well, but nothing more intense than the source material. Ideally, this story will feel similar in tone to the game, with a bit more relationship development mixed in._

_That's all for now. Thank you so, so much for reading, and I look forward to hearing what you all think!_

* * *

><p>Chapter One<p>

"The war is over."

Ashe's words resonate across every channel, buzz in every speaker on every ship. Vaan draws in a breath and holds it, looking out at the horizon. Airships streak through the sky, but their missiles have stopped flying and shrapnel no longer rains down on Rabanastre. They have won, or close enough that it doesn't matter. The war is over. Dalmasca is free.

Penelo's words rip away the moment's fragile peace. "Look Vaan! The _Bahamut!_"

Vaan follows her gaze to the massive airship. It moves with inexorable slowness through the skies, a pillar of engineering so magnificent and terrifying that he doubts he will ever see anything like it again.

And it is going to crash in the middle of the city.

Already, its base scrapes the paling above Rabanastre. Massive chunks of metal crumble off the airship, plummeting toward the city streets. In a rare moment of clarity, Vaan understands exactly what will happen. _Bahamut's_ fragments will rain down on the city, shattering the paling and crushing thousands upon thousands of people. The battle is won, but everything they have fought for—the restoration of Dalmasca, the protection of its capital city—will be lost.

On the comms, there is talk of ramming the massive airship to knock it off course. The act will save thousands but doom the hundreds of soldiers on the ship. The most surprising thing, Vaan thinks, is that the announcement comes from Judge Magister Zargabaath. A judge, saving the very city he was ordered to attack only hours ago. It is a miracle and a tragedy all at once.

Vaan looks to Larsa, kneeling with his head in his hands at the back of the cockpit. Vaan is not sure who he grieves for now. His brother, twisted by a dark god and slain, in part, by Vaan's own hand? Gabranth, the man who saved Larsa's life at the expense of his own? Larsa's innocence, butchered and bleeding after everything he's seen these past few months? Any one of these would be enough to break a person, yet Larsa just sits quietly, a glazed, hollow look in his eyes as he listens to one of the Empire's most influential judges prepare to sacrifice himself to save Rabanastre.

"Hasty, aren't they?"

Vaan jerks in his chair, and the _Strahl _lists slightly to one side as he briefly loses control of the steering mechanism. He readjusts, but the greater part of his attention remains riveted on that voice. _His _voice.

"I think it's a little early to be throwing away our lives."

"Balthier?" A part of him knows that he should not be accessing the comms now, not when the airspace around Rabanastre is already so full of chaos, but he can't help himself. He has spent nearly a year with the sky pirate (a year of clever quips, hard lessons, and desperate hopes), and he knows that tone. It is the same tone Balthier used that day in the Nalbina Dungeons when Vaan found himself staring down three seeqs armed with clubs while he had only his bare hands to defend himself. It is the tone Balthier uses when he is about to do something heroic. Now, it sends a javelin of fear through Vaan's heart. "Balthier, where are you?"

The silence of the next few seconds is the longest of Vaan's life. Finally, the sky pirate's voice crackles from the speaker. "Ah, Vaan! Sounds like you made it out okay. The _Strahl's _a fine airship, eh?"

"Balthier, what are you doing?" Marquis Ondore asks, his voice loud and clear on the comms. It is the same exact question flailing around in Vaan's mind, yet lacking the utter horror he feels.

"Marquis!" Balthier says, as if surprised. "Stop that fool judge on the _Alexander _for me, would you? I'm just getting somewhere with these glossair rings . . ."

The pieces come together. Balthier finished fixing the _Strahl's _glossair rings a full ten minutes ago, with orders for Vaan to take off as soon as they activated. He would have had to be in the engine room, but the few lessons the man has given him on the operation of the airship have imprinted numerous facts in his mind, one of which jumps to the forefront now: It takes twenty seconds for a repaired glossair ring to charge sufficiently to allow for flight.

Another thing that takes twenty seconds: the walk from the engine room to the emergency escape chute.

Balthier and Fran are still on the _Bahamut._

Ashe snatches the comm from its hook and clicks the button. "Balthier, do you understand exactly what it is you're doing?"

"Princess. No need to worry. I hope you haven't forgotten my role in this little story."

* * *

><p><em>"Quite a performance," Balthier says, stepping into the palace treasury. <em>

_ Vaan draws back, pulse thrumming in his neck. "Who are you?"_

_ "Why, I play the leading man. Who else?"_

* * *

><p>"I'm the leading man," Balthier says now, less than a quarter of a mile away, yet so far that he may as well be in Archades. "You know what they say about the leading man?"<p>

Briefly, Vaan closes his eyes. When Balthier answers his own question, Vaan hears the lie in his voice as if he has known the man an entire lifetime rather than a single year.

"He never dies."

Twenty seconds later, the _Bahamut _regains power, its rings glowing bright as it lifts into the sky and changes course, away from the center of the city and toward the desert. It spews smoke from a hundred different places, and scraps of metal the size of Migelo's shop continue to fall, breaking apart when they hit the paling protecting Rabanastre. _Bahamut _will not make it to the Estersand.

"Listen to me, Balthier," Ashe pleads. "Get out of _Bahamut _immediately. _Please, _Balthier! You mustn't die!"

Silence on the comms. Vaan can barely spare the attention to pilot the _Strahl, _but he has to do something. Without thought for falling debris, he invades the _Bahamut's _immediate airspace, searching for a place to dock. There's still time. Balthier can set the thing on a course, find his way back to the _Strahl, _and they will all make it out alive. It is the only acceptable alternative, the only option Vaan will be able to live with. Because if Balthier is still on that ship when it hits the ground . . .

"Vaan," Balthier says, his voice calm even as _Bahamut _crumbles around him, "the _Strahl's _in your hands now. You'd better take care of her, you hear? If there's one scratch on her when I get back . . ."

The _Strahl. _It has taken months for him to convince Balthier to teach him how to fly it, but the man is still immensely possessive of his airship. This is the first time Vaan has been allowed to touch the controls without the sky pirate looming over his shoulder, and if there is one thing Vaan knows, it is this: Balthier would never let anyone borrow his airship so long as he still drew breath.

"Vaan, do you hear me? Take care of my ship."

He steels himself against the terrible pain ripping through his chest and guides the _Strahl _away from the _Bahamut. _There is so much he never got a chance to say, but now there is no time, and if Balthier wants to lie one more time as the world falls apart around him, Vaan will let him. Just this once. "Roger that. We'll be waiting for you."

_I'll be waiting for you._

* * *

><p>He knows he will find nothing in the ruins of the imperial airship, but as soon as Vaan deposits Ashe, Basch, Larsa, and Penelo in the Marquis's care—hoping they will be able to handle themselves without bloodshed—he flies back to <em>Bahamut <em>and docks the _Strahl_ on one of the upper levels. Smoke continues to billow out of the airship, though it landed in the Estersand and lost power a quarter of an hour ago, and the floor wouldn't be considered sturdy by even the most lax of standards. He doesn't care. He has to know.

He wanders for hours. A few times, he has to pull a piece of cloth from his pack and cover his mouth so the smoke won't overwhelm him.

He doesn't find a trace of Balthier or Fran. A desperate part of him insists this is a good thing—if there are no bodies, they must be alive somewhere. But the more logical part of him—a part he once ignored, but which he's gradually developed over this past year—tells him that it is more likely they burned up in one of the numerous fires, and that the only trace he will find of them is a patch of soot indistinguishable from the ashes of so many others.

* * *

><p>Long after night has fallen, Vaan flies the <em>Strahl <em>to the aerodome. He does not know proper landing procedures, but with so many people moving through the aerodome, it does not seem to matter. When a moogle tells him he must pay for the space he now occupies, he hands over the requisite amount of gil (a fortune to the orphan boy he used to be, but a pittance to him now), and walks out into the common area.

Penelo is waiting for him. She cries and calls him a fool as her arms wind around his neck. He returns the embrace, says all the right words, but feels nothing but a bleak darkness inside him where there used to be light.

* * *

><p>Ashe, Larsa, and the marquis spend most of the next four days making political arrangements. They invite Vaan to sit in on the conference, but less than an hour passes before he can no longer tolerate it. He walks out, arms wrapped around his chest, as if he can stop himself from flying apart, broken beyond repair.<p>

It hurts too much to go to the _Strahl, _so he goes to the Sandsea. Tomaj takes one look at him and hands him a pitcher of ale, telling him its on the house ("But only tonight," he adds. "Have to stay in business somehow, right?")

* * *

><p>"I'm worried about you," Penelo tells him. Several weeks have passed since that day. "You've barely spoken. You hardly eat. You're not . . . yourself. I know it hurts, but there's nothing we can do except . . . except follow his last request."<p>

The reminder hits him like a punch to the gut. The _Strahl. _He feels simultaneously guilty and intimidated by the thought of returning to it, though he suspects he will owe the moogles at the aerodome more money, considering how long he's left it there. What will they do if he doesn't come back? Sell the airship? Bring it to a scrap yard?

The idea is horrible enough to peel away some of his numbness. He is not ready to return to the airship yet, but he will not ignore Balthier's last request (and it _was _his last request. He knows that now). So he stands, swaying slightly. Penelo casts a worried look in his direction, then follows him out the door.

* * *

><p>Balthier would be <em>livid. <em>

Up until this moment, Vaan has not allowed himself to think about the condition the _Strahl _is in. The few times he's allowed himself to think of the ship, he remembers it as it was the first time he saw it—pristine, unblemished, and fully functional.

After the battle against _Bahamut, _it is no longer in that condition. In fact, it is so scraped up and dingy that Vaan doesn't even know where to begin.

"Doesn't Balthier have a team of moogles on call to repair it?" Penelo asks.

"He never told me how to contact them." He feels numb. This is the sort of thing he _should _know, the sort of thing he's sure Balthier would have taught him, but now he feels adrift, a piece of skystone carried by the wind.

"I'm sure he'll have their contact information somewhere in the ship," Penelo says, desperation in her voice. "If we go on board."

"No." The word escapes his lips before he can guard himself against it, and Penelo's eyes dart to his face. After a few seconds of indecision, she reaches out to take his hand.

He pulls away before she can, muttering something about finding a bucket and some rags so he can start cleaning off the outside of the ship. Penelo does not feel this loss the same way he does (Penelo's eyes never followed Balthier's every move like his did. Penelo never opened herself up to Balthier's insults just to hear the sound of his voice. Perhaps that makes her a stronger person than Vaan is. He's too lost to care). She does not understand. He will just have to accept that.

Later that night, Vaan walks Penelo home, promising he'll get some rest. Her smile makes him think he may one day be as good a liar as Balthier was (_"You know what they say about the leading man? He never dies."_). As soon as Penelo disappears inside her apartment, Vaan returns to the aerodome. They spent the majority of the day cleaning the grime off her hull, but the airship is huge, and this problem, at least, is one Vaan can fix.

He scrubs through the night. Penelo finds him the following morning and joins him without a word. Together, they remove every trace of dirt, soot, and grime from the _Strahl's _hull. Satisfied, Vaan returns to his apartment (he has one of his own now, separate from the one he shared with Kytes and a handful of other orphans Migelo took in), and promptly collapses onto his bed.

His dreams are of fire in the skies and frantic pleas across the comms.


	2. The Lies We Tell For Ourselves

Chapter Two

Eventually, Vaan acknowledges the necessity of entering the airship. He doesn't tell Penelo he's going. He hasn't been inside since that day, and he expects the grief to hit him hard once he does. He is not wrong.

In contrast to the outside, the inner rooms of the ship are in the same condition they were before they first sighted _Bahamut_. That somehow makes it worse. The cockpit is free of clutter, the comms all hanging on their appropriate hooks. A fine layer of dust covers the controls, but the readouts are all still visible, if inactive. Balthier's chair has a slight dent in the seat from so much use, as does Fran's.

Vaan moves on to the passenger cabins. They are mostly empty. The sheets in the cot Vaan last slept in are still askew. But this room is nothing but a sleeping place. Really, he's been on the _Strahl _only a handful of times, so he has not had much chance to make himself at home.

There are two rooms, he knows, which have seen much more of their occupants than his. He enters Fran's room first. Hers has been outfitted with a circular double-bed draped in soft green sheets. The bed's legs are crafted of fine, dark wood and bolted to the floor so the bed won't slide around mid-flight. Beside that is a dresser, also made of fine wood. It contains mostly practical items, but as he opens the drawers (he knows he should not, but he does), he finds a few letters penned in a language he cannot read (The language of the viera, perhaps? It is a flowing script with looping letters and gentle twists, which seems in line with what he has seen of the viera). They may not even be letters. For all he knows, they are things Fran herself has written. It could very well be a bunch of grocery lists.

He is doing well to make it this far without breaking down. But the worst is yet to come.

Pulse pounding at the base of his throat, he slides the card key through the sensor outside Balthier's door, half-hoping it will deny him access and give him an excuse not to go inside. Unfortunately, the door glides open seamlessly, and Vaan steps across the threshold.

There are certain things he always expected to find in Balthier's room. Alcohol, lavish furniture, manuals on airship maintenance, a collection of guns and other rare weapons. And Vaan does indeed find all of these things. But it is a small envelope sitting at the foot of the bed that catches his eye. He hesitates. Entering Balthier's room is one thing, but poking through his letters? He reminds himself that minutes ago he examined Fran's personal letters without a hint of guilt, but this is different. He can _read_ these. A part of him suspects these are the last words Balthier ever wrote.

In the end, his curiosity wins out. He pinches the envelope between his thumb and forefinger and turns it over. On the back is a short note: _If you've found this envelope, please deliver its contents to their intended recipients. _

He opens the envelope and carefully removes the folded-up pieces of paper within. One is addressed to Fran (she will never read it, he thinks, so he will read it for her, but not yet, not until he can read it without feeling as if someone has rammed a hot fireplace poker into his heart). To his surprise, there is also a note for Basch, Ashe, Penelo, and even Larsa. And one addressed to him. He stares at the piece of paper for a long time, not reading it, just memorizing the shape of his name on the front, the way the V starts with a light flick of the pen and swoops down, then back up before trailing off as it stretches toward the corner of the paper.

Finally, he finds the resolve to unfold it and begins reading.

_I suppose if you're reading this, I've done something both suitably heroic and utterly careless. That said, let's get one thing out of the way up front: I am not, nor have I ever been, the heroic type. A hero, you see, is someone who is willing and able to exchange their life for __the greater good. A hero is unflinchingly brave, selfless, and loyal. A hero believes in justice, not in the rigid way of the law, but in terms of doing the right thing at any cost. _

_ I am no hero, nor do I wish to be categorized as such. As you may have noticed, heroes tend to be optimistic. After all, it takes an optimistic man to believe that there is enough good in this world to be worth seeking out. No, Vaan, I'm a cynic. I take what I want, usually in a way that raises the bounty on my head, and I expect everyone else to do the same. You see, if you suspect everyone around you of being as ruthless and pragmatic as you are, then you won't be surprised when they make off with the treasure while you're left rotting in a dungeon._

_ Of course, like all generalizations of this scale, there are exceptions. Even a self-admitted pessimist may, on rare occasion, find themselves in the company of someone brave, selfless, loyal, and optimistic. You will remember the day we spent in the Nalbina Dungeon. Specifically, the moments before you were knocked unconscious and dragged into an arena to fight for your life—a fight you may have lost if not for my intervention, I might add. There is__ one thing about that event I remember more clearly than anything else. I am, of course, referring to the moments before you were dragged away. I followed you, you see, so that you wouldn't wander off and leave myself and Fran short an ally. So I overheard what you said in that moment, before those seeqs turned their attention from their dead victim to you._

_ This is what you said: "He was defenseless."_

_I doubt you fully understand the impact of those words, even now. But they told me everything I would ever need to know about you.__They told me you would be a hero one day. Perhaps not in the storybook sense, but in the quiet way of those few people who are not afraid to die in the defense of the innocent._

_ This is, of course, why I resisted your attempts to follow in my footsteps. For one, heroes are notoriously bad at risk-assessment. Honestly, you all dive right into danger without a thought of how you're going to get out of it. And two, heroes so rarely make good sky pirates. You see, as a sky pirate, you need a certain level of cynicism in order to stay alive—something which, as I said, most heroes lack. It is, indeed, a trait _you_ lack. _

_ However, I would be remiss to leave my assessment of you at that. You have all the makings of a hero, and from what I've seen over the last few months, you're already starting to mature into one. From my observations, I have concluded several things, foremost among which is the fact that you are doggedly persistent and more than a little foolish. I suppose I should apologize for that last part, but I think we both know it to be true, and if these are indeed my last words to you, well, I'd best include at least one insult to make up for all the rather flattering things I've already written here. But really, Vaan, do try to think things through a little more, would you? I won't have you sailing my airship straight into danger without good cause. _

_ The airship is the last matter on which I need to write. If I haven't made this abundantly clear before whatever reckless, stupidly heroic action I've taken that has led to my untimely demise, the _Strahl _is yours. You'll find all the relevant paperwork in the compartment under the steering mechanism to transfer it to your name. The documents are forged, of course—I _did _steal the airship originally—but they'll serve well enough. Apart from that, you'll find extensive manuals on how to repair, operate, and otherwise handle the _Strahl's _finer machinery on the third shelf of the bookcase on the west side of my room. _

_ Take care of my ship for me. Don't let her go to the scrap heap. And if you catch wind of some great treasure, don't hesitate to fly her. The _Strahl _is like a fine woman—if you don't pay her enough attention, she will make your life miserable._

_ Oh, one more thing, before I sign off. I know I said that heroes don't make good sky pirates, but if there was ever anyone capable of being both, it would be you. _

—_Balthier_

Vaan rereads the note twice more, his vision becoming more blurry with each pass. At last, when he cannot distinguish one word from the next, he carefully folds it up and slides it into his pocket. Then, for the first time since that day, he curls up and weeps for everything he has lost.

* * *

><p>He must have fallen asleep, he thinks, because he opens his eyes and finds himself slumped against the door of Balthier's room aboard the <em>Strahl. <em>He blinks, wiping his eyes. The deserts bordering Rabanastre cast a lot of particles into the air, and there are some days when he wakes to find his eyelids crusted shut with sand. It occurs to him that the constant flow of sand will quickly become damaging to the finer instruments aboard the _Strahl. _

It also occurs to him, as he sits up, that this is the first time he's slept without nightmares since that day. Sluggish, it takes him a moment to guess why this might be. Perhaps he slept better because the subconscious awareness that he was occupying Balthier's sanctuary tricked his mind into thinking the man was still alive.

He tries to ignore the part of his mind that whispers that the real reason he slept so well is because this room smells like Balthier, who, for whatever reason, always made him feel safe. That is definitely not the reason.

Unfortunately, Vaan is not as good at lying to himself as he is at lying to others.

* * *

><p>Weeks pass. Every few days, his desperation for a night without dreams drags him back to Balthier's room aboard the <em>Strahl. <em>He has tried sleeping elsewhere (the pilot's chair, his old room, even the engine room), but nowhere else provides the sense of security that Balthier's room does.

After a month and a half of these visits, he starts coming here almost every night. By the time three months have passed, he cannot remember the last time he slept in his own apartment.

To clarify, he never sleeps in Balthier's bed—to do so would be crossing an undefinable boundary that he cannot yet bring himself to cross. Instead, he sleeps on the floor, at the foot of the bed, only occasionally borrowing Balthier's pillow to rest his head. He tells himself that as long as he allows himself nothing more, this is not an invasion of the sky pirate's space. There is nothing sacred about a bedroom, after all, and the man obviously expected someone to find the envelope full of letters (Vaan still hasn't delivered them to the rest of his companions, nor has he told Penelo that he's been inside the airship), so there is no reason why the room should be off-limits to him, no matter how personal it feels.


	3. A Shadow of Truth

Chapter Three

Five months after the fall of the _Bahamut_, Vaan is finally ready to allow others onto the _Strahl. _

"I can't believe how good everything still looks," Penelo says, walking the length of the main hall and peering into the cockpit. "I sort of expected there to be more dust."

Vaan doesn't say it, but he is the reason no dust has accumulated. Balthier charged him with taking care of the ship, and though he hasn't flown it since that day, he keeps it clean.

"Hey, Vaan," Penelo says, a little hesitantly. He looks over to her (smiling, of course; he has grown much better at keeping his inner turmoil out of sight), and waits for her to say whatever she wants to say. "I've been doing some research. On how airships work, I mean. I think if I could get my hands on the right tools, I might be able to do some of the repairs myself. That will save us some gil on expenses."

Despite how good a liar he's become, he can't help the way his lungs seize up at the suggestion. The hopeful glint in Penelo's eyes dims slightly. "I just thought that it might need some maintenance," she continues. "According to manuals I've been reading, we should really be doing a thorough check of the engine room every month."

"You're right." It hurts to say the words, but this truth, at least, he can give her. "We can go to the market and pick up some tools tomorrow. It'll be good to have the ship in top condition again."

* * *

><p>Penelo was not exaggerating the depth of her knowledge. Currently, she hangs upside-down from a metal bar, fiddling with the wires between the ship's engine and the glossair rings. These past three days, she has repaired all manner of things, as well as performed essential maintenance on various machines. As Vaan watches her work, he thinks of a man with copper-colored eyes hanging in much the same position as he made adjustments to the ship's core. The handful of times he saw Balthier working on the airship were eye-opening, not only in regards to the functioning of the engine, but as an insight into the man himself. There had been a simple contentment to Balthier when he worked on the <em>Strahl, <em>as if whatever forces made him feel the need to continuously act as if he really was the leading man in a play were briefly lifted, leaving the man beneath unguarded and utterly at ease.

* * *

><p>Seven months after the end of the war, the last of the imperial soldiers pull out of Rabanastre. When Vaan asks why it took so long, Ashe explains that the imperials, for all their faults, instilled a sense of order in Dalmasca, and if removed abruptly, the sudden absence of authority would have likely caused all the suppressed discontent and frustration to explode, rather than decompress gradually.<p>

"Why the sudden interest in politics?" Ashe asks. Gone are the shadows of bitterness in her eyes. Their disappearance makes her look younger, more approachable, but he has seen her in battle and knows that she can make herself as unyielding as steel.

"It's not sudden," he says, a little defensively. Ashe lifts her eyebrows slightly, and Vaan lets out a breath. "It's . . . I spent so much of my life wanting to be a sky pirate, but hardly knowing anything about the rest of the world. It's not that I'm interested in politics. I'm just sick of people thinking I'm ignorant."

Ashe regards him for a long moment, her expression turning serious. "Vaan, do you know why, in the end, I chose _not _to take revenge against the Empire? Why I chose to destroy the Sun-Cryst instead of use it?"

He frowns. "Because it was the right thing to do?"

Ashe shakes her head. "I did it because if you—you, who lost your brother, your home, and your innocence to the Empire—could abandon revenge for the sake of what was right, then I had no reason to hold my own hatred so closely." She lifts her cup and takes a sip of tea, her eyes faraway. "For a time, it actually seemed as if you were all working against me, telling me to give up on searching for the power to destroy the Empire. I resisted because of my own hubris, because I was so certain that I had the right of it. You see, Vaan, I didn't need anyone to tell me what I was doing wrong. What I needed was someone to _show_ me how to do what was _right_." Her eyes flicker to his face. "I saw you abandon your hatred for the Empire. In the end, that is what gave me strength to do the same. For Dalmasca. For the greater good."

Her words are startlingly close to those in Balthier's letter (the letter he has read so many times that he can recite it word-for-word, though up until this moment, he's been unable to accept those words are being completely genuine).

"Do you understand?" Ashe asks.

"Yeah." He closes his eyes. "Yeah, I think I finally do."

* * *

><p>That night, he returns to the <em>Strahl, <em>sits down in the pilot's chair, and starts the engine. The vibrations hum through the body of the ship, subtle and constant, like the whisper of sand scraping against the ship's hull at night. Vaan lets out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. The broken shards of his heart mend, just a little, as he flicks a series of switches to get the glossair rings spinning at the requisite speed for takeoff.

He has always longed for the freedom of the skies. The day of the battle, he flew to escape, to save himself and his friends. Before that, he flew under Balthier's watchful eye, flapping his wings but not yet free of his cage. These past seven months have seen his wings clipped, his desire for freedom abandoned, his optimism caged and mutilated.

But tonight—_tonight—_he flies, free at last.

* * *

><p>The euphoria of slicing through the open sky lasts only a few hours before he is forced to land. He has spent most of the fuel remaining in the ship and will need to have Penelo replace the fuel rods. Exhausted, he returns to Balthier's room, lays down a blanket on the floor in front of his bed, and sleeps soundly.<p>

* * *

><p>By the tenth month after that day, Vaan has taken every living member of their old party for a ride on the airship. He does this for two reasons. The first: He wants to show everyone how much better he's become at piloting it. The second: It is time for him to finally distribute all of Balthier's letters.<p>

Ashe cannot reach the end of hers without weeping, though she does share a few sentences with him as she struggles to regain composure. Penelo reads her letter in silence, eyes sparkling with nascent tears, but she manages to keep herself together from beginning to end. Basch reads his with the same solemn dignity he shows in everything he does. Vaan doesn't get to see Larsa's reaction, as the fledgling emperor is busy in Archades and does not have the time to come to Rabanastre, but a few days later, Vaan receives a note of thanks. Larsa and Balthier were never close—in fact, he is quite sure that if necessity had not brought them together, they would never so much as spoken to one another—but Larsa's words of gratitude ring true, and Vaan knows he would not take the time to reply if Balthier's letter to him hadn't stirred up some response.

The only letter that remains unread is Fran's. Vaan remembers the night he found that envelope. He promised himself he would read it in her stead once he was able. But while he thinks he is strong enough now to get through it without breaking down, reading her letter somehow no longer seems like the right thing to do. So he leaves it in her room, atop the bed, then returns to the pilot's chair and pulls his own letter out of his pocket.

The words are faded, the parchment nearly falling apart at the creases from being folded and unfolded so many times. A few grains of sand cling to the edges of the paper, the product of too much time in the middle of a desert.

The letter is one of only a few things that still has the power to hurt him. Vaan relishes the pain because it proves he is still alive, in his soul as well as his body. He has so thoroughly oppressed the former that he needs the reassurance.

* * *

><p>A year has passed. Vaan stands in the aerodome, viewing the <em>Strahl <em>in all its glory. It is tuned up now, every flaw repaired, every scratch buffed out, every trace of grime scrubbed away. It is magnificent, like its owner (The _Strahl _will always belong to Balthier. As far as Vaan is concerned, he's just borrowing it for a while).

Vaan takes out his letter again, his eyes going automatically to a handful of words near the bottom. _Take care of my ship for me. Don't let her go to the scrap heap. _

"Never," he whispers, holding the piece of parchment close to his chest. "I'll never let that happen."

In a year's time, Vaan has nearly managed to lock the grief away. Except for the letter, which acts as a battering ram to the fortress he's built up around the shredded, broken part of him that is lost (and alone, more alone than ever because he has managed to convince Penelo that he's content even though he's more miserable now than he was the day he received news of his brother's death. He is alone because he no longer knows how to share his grief with her, because she has moved on and he hasn't, she is whole and he is broken, she is vibrant and alive while he is living a lie so that she can stay that way).

His lies have grown so much better, so much more refined. Like Balthier, in a way (Balthier could be refined even covered in blood). Vaan can even believe his own lies, most of the time. It's only when he reads Balthier's letter that he again becomes aware the deception that has taken root in his mind. So much of who he is now comes down to what is in that letter (_"I know I said that heroes don't make good sky pirates, but if there was ever anyone capable of being both, it would be you."). _He is, of course, only a shadow of those things, but it is that shadow which defines him, and for now, that is enough.

* * *

><p>That night, as usual, he sleeps at the foot of Balthier's bed.<p>

He wakes up to find the _Strahl _sailing over the Mosphoran Highwaste.


	4. The Liar Returns

Chapter Four

"It would seem our little thief managed to avoid leaving any scratches on our ship, eh?"

Balthier stands near the edge of the private hangar where the _Strahl _is docked. He must admit he is pleased with his airship's condition. He told Vaan to take care of it, but the boy has never had much of an eye for detail, and honestly, he didn't expect the ship to be in such good repair.

"If we are going to steal it back," Fran says, standing at his side, "we'd best do it before the aerodome grows too busy."

"That we should." Balthier slides a large envelope from his pack and leaves it near the door. Vaan will find it, he is certain. The boy sticks his nose into everything, and that curiosity will not allow him to ignore the package when it becomes apparent that the _Strahl _is no longer where he left it. As soon as the envelope is in place, Balthier walks up to the ship's loading hatch, enters the code, and steps back as a staircase unfurls from the bottom of the ship. _It's good to be back, _he thinks, grabbing his traveling pack. There is only one, as he sold all the valuable things he's stolen this past year in exchange for exorbitant amounts of gil, most of which has been siphoned off into several dozen accounts bearing false names.

They don't have time to dawdle. He sends Fran to do a quick check of the engine, then makes his way to the cockpit. Like the hull, it is immaculate, free of sand and dust, the interface polished, without even a fingerprint to indicate that anyone has flown the ship in months. Again, the attention to detail surprises him. Perhaps Penelo has recently done a thorough cleaning of the ship; she was always more attentive to such things than Vaan. Although this level of cleanliness seems excessive, even for her. Balthier himself does not keep such a clean airship.

Fran returns from the engine room. "Everything is in place. The engine appears to have recently undergone maintenance."

Though he has not been in the ship in a year (to the day, because Balthier is nothing if not punctual), he feels an instinctive need to go look at the engine himself. If the little thief changed anything . . .

Fran's look of wry amusement eases some of his tension. "Fear not. It is in much the same state as you left it, only recently tuned."

"Good," he says, voice clipped. "If he'd modified anything, I'd have to track him down and beat him senseless." He doesn't mean it (of course not—his words may sometimes be harsh, but it has been a long time since he has deliberately done anything to hurt the boy). He's the leading man, and the leading man does not lower himself to fisticuffs with inferior opponents.

Satisfied (if still a little perturbed by the obvious care that has gone into maintaining the _Strahl _in his absence), he activates the engine, powers up the glossair rings, and sends a signal to the aerodome's nighttime operator to open the hatch above the ship. The _Strahl _rises into the air without the slightest bit of resistance. In a way, Balthier is disappointed—he rather likes how fickle his ship can be, as that makes his expert control over it all the more satisfying.

"Set a course to the northeast," he tells Fran. "I've been hearing rumors of a treasure near Archades. Better to reach it before anyone else catches wind of it."

"Aye." Fran inputs their coordinates, making sure to modify their flight path so they will steer clear of the Necrohol of Nabudis. It's been more than three years since the disaster, and Balthier suspects it will be at least three _hundred _years before the Mist there has dissipated enough for people to tread safely through the area.

They don't switch to autopilot right away. Where would the fun in that be? No, he takes the controls in his hands, and as soon as he is clear of Rabanastre's soaring buildings, he tests out his airship's capabilities. It could be the routine maintenance, or it could be the fact that he hasn't flown her in ages, but she seems more graceful than ever, heeding his every command as rises and plummets, banks and twists. He pushes her hard, gaining speed until the readouts in front of him max out.

The sky embraces him like an old lover, and he recaptures the absolute freedom he has longed for every night these past twelve months.

* * *

><p>Even the greatest of dive talons cannot fly forever. As they reach the edge of the Mosphoran Highwaste, he flips the controls to autopilot. "I suppose I'd better get some rest. If the winds are with us, we'll land in Archades late tomorrow evening."<p>

Fran nods. She will watch the controls while he rests, in case anything goes wrong. When he wakes, he will do the same so she can sleep. It is how they have always done things.

Balthier leaves the cockpit, walks down the corridor that bisects the ship, and slides his systems access card through the slot beside his chamber door. Though he has occupied many beds in the past year (and shared a handful with partners whose names he hardly remembers), he will be glad to return to the comforting folds of his own sheets. Perhaps he will even pick one of the books off his shelf and read for a while before settling in. Really, he is inclined to enjoy his first night back on his ship.

The door slides open soundlessly, and all thoughts of relaxation vanish from his mind. For a moment, he stares uncomprehending at the bundle of blankets and splayed arms and legs lying on the floor at the foot of his bed. A corpse? It seems unlikely that anyone could sleep through the aerial maneuvers he's been performing for the last few hours, so it seems reasonable (in his shock) to assume that someone has been killed and left in his bedroom for some inexplicable purpose. But . . . no. The bundle shifts, rolling to one side as the person within tries to find a comfortable position in which to sleep. As their movements reveal a portion of their face, Balthier experiences his second shock of the night: this is not some stranger who has taken up in his airship; it's _Vaan_.

The boy's eyes are closed, lashes fanning out across sun-kissed cheeks. His hair, silver-white with the faintest touch of gold, sprawls across his neck, where his heartbeat pulses, just barely visible, beneath his skin. His tossing and turning has left his bedraggled blanket askew, revealing the sweep of his collarbone as it disappears behind his vest (if it can even be called a vest. It may not have sleeves, but to Balthier's mind, a vest should not bare one's midriff . . . Though in this case, he must admit he likes the effect). The boy wears the same pants he so often wore during their travels, though they are cleaner than Balthier remembers them.

These details should not be so striking, Balthier tells himself. He has seen Vaan in much the same state of dress many times, and he has always been distantly aware of his striking appearance. Yet now he sees the subtle changes. Broader shoulders, better proportions, full cheeks (Vaan may not be as timid or jaded as most children of the street, but Balthier remembers a time when his face looked perpetually gaunt from malnutrition, the mark of a boy who has known hunger). Individually, each of these changes are minute enough not to matter, but together, they create an image that Balthier rarely glimpsed during their travels.

Vaan is no longer a child. It's a startling realization, one Balthier has to shunt aside before it can further distract him from the present matter, which is the fact that _Vaan is sleeping in his bedroom without his consent. _

"I do hope you're not planning on staying here long."

The little thief's eyelids fly open, his entire body going rigid as if Balthier has dumped a bucket of ice-water on him. His eyes (a soft gray, like fog just before sunrise) focus first on Balthier's boots, riveted (he has always had an impeccable fashion sense . . . but really, they're just _boots_). Then, slowly, his gaze pans up until they are staring at one another, Balthier looming, Vaan looking up as if he can't quite believe what he's seeing. A maelstrom of confusion, hurt, and awe shimmers in the boy's eyes (other things too, things Balthier refuses to put a name to at the moment, for if he does, he will not be able to hold onto his blasé facade).

"You're alive." The words are quiet, almost reverent.

"So it appears." He gives an exaggerated shrug. "Of more immediate importance, I'm tired and wish to retire for the evening, so if you'd like to explain what it is you're doing in my chambers, be quick about it."

The boy blinks, uncomprehending. Then he stands, swaying as the ship lists underfoot. Balthier crosses his arms, waiting, but instead of an explanation, the little thief starts demanding answers. "Where have you been? Why didn't you let us know you were alive? How . . . Are we _flying_? Where are we? Is Penelo—"

Balthier can only tolerate this drivel for so long. He cuts Vaan off with a sharp gesture, a little surprised when the boy immediately falls silent, hurt burning in his eyes (Balthier never meant to hurt him, not to such a degree, but he does not know how to ease the boy's anguish). "Why are you here?"

Something like shame ripples across the boy's features. He mumbles something, the words too indistinct for Balthier's ears.

"Speak up, would you?"

Vaan casts a furtive glance his way before looking down at his feet. "This is the only place where I don't have nightmares."

Balthier is no stranger to nightmares. As a boy, he endured many sleepless nights, at first fearing imaginary monsters, and later, confronting the reality of his father's descent into madness (though he knows now it was not truly madness. The phantoms his father saw were not figments of his imagination, but something real, and the research was not so much an obsession as it was a twisted attempt to bring prosperity to their otherwise unremarkable house). Then there are the other dreams, the dreams of when he was a judge. Compared to most judges, he has little blood on his hands, but the faces of those he was required to pass judgment on still haunt his dreams.

All things considered, he can see the draw of a place the nightmares don't penetrate. That said, he is not about to let sticky-fingered street urchin sleep in his chambers. "Out."

"Balthier—"

"_Out. _We can discuss this further when I wake."

Vaan shies away at his tone. One of many advantages of always being in control of oneself is the fact that whenever that control slips, it is both instantly noticeable and very effective. He watches the boy shuffle out of his room, then taps the button beside the door to close it. Later. He will deal with the little thief later.


	5. A Lie of the Heart

Chapter Five

Hours pass. Balthier tosses and turns. His mind circles, focusing on details such as why he didn't take five minutes to check the airship for stowaways before setting out and why, of all places, Vaan would find comfort in his bedroom.

If those were the most frustrating puzzles left to him, he might have managed a more restful slumber. But though it shames him to admit, these questions are nothing but a breeze in the whirlwind in his mind. No, it's the image of the boy, cocooned in a ratty blanket at the foot of his bed (like a dog, he thinks, for only dogs sleep on the floor like that), yet still somehow managing to look striking. The memory alone is enough to stir certain . . . urges within him.

It's shameful, really. He thought he'd put away all such notions for the boy long ago. There was, after all, a half a decade of difference between them (more than that if one accounts for the boy's immaturity). In any case, he has no business regarding Vaan in such a way. He prefers his lovers to be gone by the time he wakes in the morning, and it could never be that way with Vaan. The boy is too attached to him as is (Vaan was hurt because Balthier disappeared, _grieved _for his apparent death). The thought of a night of exploration with the boy is enticing, but also impossible. One night becomes two, a troublesome thief becomes an ally, a quest to rescue the boy's kidnapped companion becomes a twist of fate which pulls him into a quest for a stone that turns out to be nethicite. Balthier has played this game before, and he knows there are no winners.

He tells himself it does not matter anyway. Vaan follows him because he represents the future the boy wishes to claim for himself, not out of any physical inclinations. If one of them is to open that door, it will not be him (cannot be him).

* * *

><p>Fran does not seem surprised when Vaan enters the cockpit.<p>

Then again, Fran rarely seems surprised about anything. In this case, he thinks her lack of surprise is due to her acute hearing, which likely allowed her to overhear his (all too short) reunion with Balthier.

Balthier.

Balthier is supposed to be dead. He vanished after the _Bahamut _crashed right outside of Rabanastre, his body never recovered. Vaan had been so sure that if he'd survived, he'd have left some clue (and Vaan had spent hours combing the ruins of the massive airship, so he knows there were no traces). At the very least, he'd expected that Balthier would return to let them know he hadn't perished in the crash. But instead he'd disappeared without a trace, abandoning the rest of them to their grief. Abandoning _him. _

How could he be so selfish?

It is not until Fran speaks that he realizes he has voiced his thoughts. "He did not wish to cause you pain."

His lungs seize up. What does it matter what he intended? It doesn't make the grief go away. It doesn't make his betrayal sting any less (_"You know what they say about the leading man? He never dies."_). Because it _is _a betrayal. Vaan trusted Balthier to be selfish, and instead he decided to risk his life saving everyone, and while Vaan cannot fault him for the impulse, there is still the fact that he never dropped by to tell anyone he'd survived.

"The city was swarmed with imperial soldiers," Fran says, a plaintive note in her voice. "Even the best sky pirates cannot avoid so many watching eyes, particularly after announcing his presence for all to hear. It was necessary for everyone to believe we had perished."

"Necessary?" The word sounds hollow. "Was it _necessary _for him to leave the rest of us behind like that?"

Fran doesn't answer right away. Her eyes remain fixed on the displays before her, though the look there is more distant than he can fathom. At last, she speaks. "Before we returned to the _Strahl _tonight, we left a note in the hangar for you to find. It would have given you a destination, in case you still hoped to chase after us. We did not expect you to be on board when we took off."

A twinge of guilt punctures a hole in his anger. "Would've been nice to have that note a year ago."

Fran merely nods and says, "I'm sorry."

* * *

><p>Lacking anywhere else to go, Vaan heads to the ship's galley. The kitchen is small but luxurious, with a stove powered by fire magicite and an insulated box kept cool by ice magicite. Vaan has yet to see their like elsewhere. He and Penelo shared a wood-burning stove in the old apartment Migelo gave them in exchange for work, but they'd never have been able to afford magicite strong enough for an icebox. The first time he saw it, he had to ask Fran what it was and how it worked (that happened a lifetime ago, it seems, though really it has been only a year and a half).<p>

Regardless, the luxurious appliances mean that he has actually stored away a fairly impressive collection of foodstuffs, so he opens the icebox and retrieves a few slices of meat and vegetables and makes himself a sandwich. It may be Balthier's ship, but Vaan is the one who's been keeping the kitchen stocked.

He eats, then leans back in his seat, letting his eyelids drift shut. Though he has been sleeping in Balthier's room lately, he is not so far removed from his life on the streets. When everyone is either a quick-fingered thief or someone who prefers to boot you out of their doorway, you learn to catch a bit of sleep at every opportunity and wake at the first hint of danger.

It does raise a question about how he managed to sleep through the _Strahl _taking off, but he attributes that to the fact that he has spent enough time piloting it that the vibration of its engines are more soothing than alarming.

Of course, now that he is no longer in the sky pirate's bedchamber, there is nothing keeping the nightmares at bay. Suppressed so long, they return with a vengeance, and he is subjected to memories of that day. This time, he is on the _Bahamut _with Balthier, watching him insert new fuel rods into the engine to replaced the ones cracked by the Mist surging throughout the ship during their fight against Vayne. The sky pirate works with calm deliberation, flaming debris raining down all around him.

"Balthier," Ashe says, her voice distorted by the failing communications equipment on the _Bahamut_. "Do you understand exactly what it is you're doing?"

Vaan remembers this, remembers glancing back to see Ashe's face going white. But now, in the dream, he devotes his attention entirely to Balthier, to the lie in his voice and the resolve on his face. "Ah, princess, no need to worry. I hope you haven't forgotten my role in this little story. I'm the leading man. And you know what they say about the leading man?"

Vaan holds his breath, a massive chunk of metal falling from above and rending one of the floor panels asunder. This is the lie that has haunted him for a year, some of the last words Balthier said before the communications cut off.

"He never dies," Balthier finishes as the engine starts up. The sudden restoration of power sends shock waves through the ship, and the already unstable structures crumble further, hundreds of bits of metal pelting them.

The nightmare diverges from reality then. Rather than making an escape, as he must have, Balthier (and Fran, she's there too, though Vaan can hardly focus on her) stops short as a massive chunk of the ceiling collapses in front of them, blocking their exit. "Damn."

"We have to get out of here," Vaan says, grabbing the man's upper arm and dragging him toward the center of the ship. They cannot escape this way, so they will have to find another dock that hasn't become unusable. But then one of the main support beams above their heads falls, landing with a resounding crash two paces in front of him. They are trapped. And that is not the worst thing. No, the worst thing is the way Balthier's leg bends (backwards, at an unnatural angle) as it is crushed under the support beam. The worst thing is the look on his face. Pain, shock, fear . . . and worst of all, a sick sort of resignation, as if he knows how this nightmare ends and believes there is no other way.

Adrenaline thrums in Vaan's veins, but even the boost of strength is not enough for him to heave the support beam out of the way. A moment later, Balthier's fingers wrap around his upper arm. "Enough," he says. "There's nothing you can do. You should quit this place while you still can."

"I'm not leaving you," he yells (but he _did _leave him once, on that day, even if he didn't know it at the time, and that is something he has never been able to forgive himself for).

"I'll not have us both perish here," the man says. "Go. Take care of the _Strahl _for me."

The _Strahl. _Clarity strikes hard then. For a year, he has taken care of the _Strahl, _buffing away every scratch, helping Penelo fix the engines, scrubbing dirt and dust and sand from every surface. These things should fill him with pride, but each action is tainted because what is the _Strahl _except a poor substitute for its owner? Why should he bother caring for it when the only person who deserves to fly it is gone, presumed dead? How could Balthier think that a shiny hunk of metal could make up for the fact that he won't be around anymore?

"Vaan," Balthier says, almost tenderly. Vaan realizes he is crying and lifts his head to meet the man's eyes. "There's nothing you can do now."

He shakes his head, still desperately shoving at the support beam that pins the sky pirate where he lays. It is not enough. He cannot budge that weight. No matter what he does, it is not enough.

He thinks it never will be.

* * *

><p>At last, Balthier gives up on trying to sleep. His mind bustles, and he cannot shut it down long enough to rest. The boy should not have this effect on him, no matter how unexpected his presence aboard the <em>Strahl <em>is.

_ Better to just drop him at the next gate crystal and tell him to go back to Rabanastre, _he thinks acidly, annoyed at the boy, though it is not his fault that Balthier cannot keep his own thoughts in line. At least getting him off the airship will remove any temptation he presents.

He stops outside the private room the boy occupied the handful of times he flew on this ship as a passenger, but when he knocks, there is no response. He opens the door with his access key anyway, finding it empty. No one has slept here in months.

The next logical place to check is the cockpit, but he is not there either, and when he casually inquires about Vaan's whereabouts, Fran tells him he wandered off to the galley hours ago. _Should have known, _Balthier thought, feeling an unexpected surge of fondness. The boy ate like . . . well, like a street urchin desperate enough to risk losing a hand for thievery.

The dismal sentiment is enough to diffuse the warmth in his chest. There is nothing endearing about a boy who can eat half his weight in food in a day. It's costly, and Balthier only cares for costly things if they somehow benefit him.

A faint noise from within the galley gives him pause. Curious, he removes his boots (they will _thump _against the tiled floor and alert the boy to his presence) and pads into the cramped kitchenette. The little thief is slumped over in one of the seats, one cheek resting on the table. It looks dreadfully uncomfortable, but he does not think that is the reason for the anguish twisting the sleeping boy's face. Vaan is far from a restless sleeper, or so Balthier's earlier observations would imply, so the obvious tension on his face seems out of place, especially compared to the peaceful look he'd worn when Balthier first discovered he was on board.

As he watches, the boy lets out a cry, followed by a slur of muffled words Balthier can't make out. His fingers twitch, and his eyebrows furrow. Whatever haunts his dreams is distressing enough to steal away every trace of peace on his face, and it takes only a few seconds for Balthier to realize he cannot stand there and do nothing.

He nudges the boy's arm. "Easy now. It's just a dream," he says (but he knows the torment of nightmares, knows the worst of them eat away at the soul, and even though he is annoyed with the boy, it bothers him deeply to see him in such distress). His hand slides down Vaan's forearm, smoothing the fine hairs there.

At last, the pain on the boy's faces eases, though he doesn't wake. When Balthier realizes they are practically holding hands, he withdraws and takes a seat across the table from Vaan. And then he waits.


	6. Truths Unveiled

Chapter Six

Nearly an hour later, Vaan stirs, eyelids flicking open. He glances up, eyes widening when he sees Balthier sitting across the table from him. For a moment, they are silent, though Balthier can see the questions burning in his little thief's eyes. At last, he gets up, retrieves a bottle of rum from one of the hidden cupboards (untouched, which either means Vaan hasn't found it or for some reason has decided not to partake in it), and pours them each a glass of the stuff. "Let's make a deal," he says, picking up his own glass and taking a sip. "You have questions, as do I, so we will sit here and take turns answering one another until one of us passes out."

He expects an argument. Not because his suggestion is actually objectionable, but because Vaan argues about nearly everything. But this time is different. The little thief regards him solemnly for a moment, then takes a long drink. "Do I get to start?"

"Very well."

"How did you escape the _Bahamut_?"

"The same way we escaped the _Leviathan,_" he explains. "Fran and I commandeered an atomos. We had to do some repairs first. Most of the vehicles had been taken by soldiers fleeing the ship, and this one had been left behind because no one could find the time to insert fresh power rods into it. A simple fix, really."

"You found an atomos that everyone had left behind? _T__hat's _how you got out?"

He smiles a little at the incredulity in Vaan's voice. "You may be surprised by how much of a sky pirate's life revolves around luck. I suspect things might have turned out differently if fortune hadn't favored us that day."

Vaan's face falls, but he doesn't say whatever it is he's thinking. Another change. Balthier is accustomed to the boy blurting out every stray thought that pops into his head. _It seems he's grown up some while I've been away, _he thinks, taking another sip.

In any case, it's his turn to ask a question. "What's your last name?"

Vaan's head snaps up. "My last name?"

"Yes. You've never mentioned it. I'm curious."

"Well . . . Old Dalan started calling me 'Vaan Ratsbane' back before this all started."

Balthier shakes his head. "Before that. Your family name."

Vaan takes a breath. "Sebarial," he says quietly. "But I haven't used that name since my brother died. Why would I? It's not like I have any family left, and we weren't nobility to start with." Vaan takes another long drink (Balthier suspects he will pass out within the hour, at the rate he's going). "Took us long enough to figure out _your _name, anyway . . ."

"True, but if you recall, I have a rather significant bounty on my head." He pauses a moment, considering. "I'm told the princess is looking forward to her coronation. Have you spoken to her recently?"

Vaan grimaces. "I've been a little preoccupied," he admits. "I talked to her a couple months ago, over dinner, but Penelo sees her more than I do. She mentioned that Ashe is busy keeping up appearances, and that's why she's sort of drifting away from us, but . . . I don't know. Can you really drift apart from someone who fought alongside you for most of a year, no matter how long you go without seeing them?"

Balthier gets the sense that they are no longer talking about the princess. He stares into his drink for a minute, thinking about how to redirect the conversation, but Vaan interrupts. "Why didn't you ever tell us you made it out of the _Bahamut _alive?"

This question strays close to things he'd rather not talk about. "I _did _tell you, Vaan. As I recall, I reminded everyone the leading man never dies. Wasn't that assurance enough?"

Vaan shoots to his feet, the flash of rage so abrupt that Balthier goes stiff with shock. "No!" Vaan yells. "No, it _wasn't _enough! Because you didn't mean it! You didn't think you were going to make it out of there, so you said that so we could convince ourselves that you'd be fine. But you _didn't_, Balthier. It was a lie, and we all knew it. _I _knew it, and I was just the stupid kid tagging along while you played the leading man! How could you do that to me—to us?"

Silence. For the first time in years, he finds that he has no idea what to say or how to turn this situation to his advantage. Because Vaan is right. It _was _a lie, or he'd expected it to be. It hadn't occurred to him that it would sound so transparent (or that Vaan, of all people, would be perceptive enough to know he was lying). The accusation shatters all the shields he has erected around himself, and he cannot keep the guilt from his face. "There was nothing any of you could have done, and if you'd tried, you'd have put your own lives at risk for a futile mission. Considering that you had both the princess and Archadia's future emperor on board at the time, the risk was too great."

Vaan scowls. "I thought you didn't care about politics."

"I _don't, _but it's more difficult traversing a war-torn country than a peaceful one, and in the event that I made it out alive—which I _did—_I wanted to have the opportunity to conduct my business without having to sidestep soldiers at every turn."

The boy regards him silently, arms crossed. His eyes burn with a resentment Balthier has not seen in him since those first days, when the boy was obsessed with avenging his brother. And all that bitterness is directed at him, for leaving, for not sending word of his survival, and Balthier cannot help but acknowledge he is _right _to be angry.

He exhales slowly, fitting each of his masks back into place before he speaks again. "If you're so desperate to believe I was lying that day, then I can drop you at the next gate crystal and you can go back to Rabanastre and pretend I'm still dead."

Vaan flinches as if he's been struck. His anger evaporates in a second. "I just . . . I wanted to know why you left without letting us know you were alive. We meant that much to you, didn't we? You must have cared, at least a little, about what would happen to us when you left."

He takes the last sip of his drink, then—seeing that Vaan has also finished his off—picks up the bottle to refill their glasses. "Moving on," he says, as if this last part of the conversation never happened at all. "It's my turn to ask a question."

Vaan gives him a petulant look but allows him to speak.

"What have you been up to this year, aside from taking care of the _Strahl_?"

The petulance gives way to guilt. Really, the boy's moods are more mercurial than the _Strahl _on a bad day. Balthier can hardly fathom how the boy leaps between raging and sulking, between prideful defiance and shame. "Not much," he answers. "Mostly, I've been here, on the ship."

_Ah. Finally something worth pursuing. _"And? Have you found any great treasures or gone on any adventures in my absence?"

To his surprise, the boy remains sheepish. "I haven't gone far from Rabanastre. Nothing out there has caught my interest."

"Nothing? Not the mysteries of the Nabreus Deadlands or the vast expanses of the Cerobi Steppe?"

Vaan shakes his head.

"I will admit I'm surprised. I didn't teach you how to fly the _Strahl _so she would sit in an aerodome for the rest of her life. Have you even flown her since the fall of _Bahamut_?"

"Of course I have! Just . . . You wouldn't understand."

"And what, pray tell, would I not understand?"

"I was waiting for you to come back."

"You've already established that you thought I was dead. You'll not accomplish much in life if you wait on the whims of a dead man." It is hardly the best reply, considering what Vaan has just admitted, but already, he is tired of this tripe. If he were not a man of his word (and he is. For all his faults, he _is _a man of his word), he would walk away to let the boy wallow in his frustration.

He drinks, long and deep, and when he sets his glass down, he is marginally more composed. "It's your turn, though I'd prefer if you refrain from bringing up my insufferable selfishness. There must be some other line of inquiry you're interested in pursuing."

Moments pass. Vaan drinks, his gaze distant. At last, he sets his (now empty) glass on the table and speaks. "When did you start to consider taking me on as your apprentice? It had to be before you taught me to fly the _Strahl_."

It is, Balthier will admit, an interesting question, and he has to ponder on the answer for a full minute before he is ready to explain himself. "I suppose the idea first occurred to me the night we met."

The boy's eyes widen. "That long ago?"

Balthier shrugs. "Consider it logically for a moment. The palace had been heavily guarded ever since the Imperial occupation began. To complicate things further, it's a maze of secret rooms and corridors that don't exist on any map, many of which have likely not seen any visitors in decades. It's said that not even the royal family knows all the paths through the palace—and considering Ashe is the only remaining member of said royal family, that may very well be true." He pauses a moment, remembering that night, remembering his first glimpse of the boy darting through the corridors. "You see, Fran and I were only able to infiltrate because the fete that night meant the palace would be seeing more traffic than it had in nearly two years. We intended to break in during the party, as the guests were arriving, then slip out when people started departing. It was a mission we'd planned for weeks, but it was still risky, perhaps even foolhardy."

Surprise flickers in Vaan's eyes. Smiling to himself, Balthier continues. "As we made our way into the lower levels of the palace, however, we encountered something we weren't expecting: you." He leans back, folding his arms in front of his chest. "It was, as you can imagine, quite an unusual sight. A young thief, practically still a child, obviously too poor to afford decent clothing—"

"_Hey_."

"—Really, how would anyone expect someone such as yourself to infiltrate the most heavily guarded building in Rabanastre with no backup and only a laughably inferior sword at his belt? It's rather like a Giza Rabbit traipsing into a wyvern's lair and making off with its hoard. If you'd been caught digging around in the treasury, you'd have been executed. Yet not only did you do all this unaided, but you did it more effectively than Fran and I could have hoped. You see, our original plan was to poke through a few hidden rooms we'd managed to find maps of during our preparations. When we looked over those maps later, it became apparent that the treasury was not included on any of them. It was only because we decided to follow you that we made it into the palace treasury at all. You'll have to tell me sometime how you managed that, by the way. I always meant to ask.

"Naturally, I didn't want to lose track of such a capable young thief, no matter how poor his manners. That's why I didn't simply throw you off the parapet that night and retrieve that stone from your grasp, you see. The stone was valuable—more so than I initially suspected—but I'd found a treasure even more valuable that night: I'd found someone who would, if given the opportunity, surpass me one day. My clever little thief."

He pauses, letting that sink in, but Vaan's response is not what he expected. "You made that up."

"Whatever do you mean?"

The little thief's eyes narrow. "You never thought I was clever. Every time you spoke to me, it was to point out how careless or stupid I was being."

"Then you misunderstood my intentions," he says, irritated. Did the boy honestly not understand why he'd acted so dismissive? "I realized you responded better when you felt you had something to oppose, so I denied your every attempt to make me your mentor so that by the time I did eventually start offering you bits of advice, you would accept them without argument. Make no mistake, Vaan, I made you my apprentice the very first night we met. How could I not, when you'd proven so much more resourceful than you had any right to be?"

The boy flexes his jaw, then glowers at the table. "You called me a fool."

Balthier raises an eyebrow. "Oh? When?"

"In your letter."

A cold shock courses through his chest. The letter. He'd nearly forgotten. _Had _forgotten, until this moment. He'd left an envelope full of letters in his chambers, in case he perished, one for each member of their party (plus Larsa, because if there is any chance of surviving a bad situation, it pays to keep in touch with the local benevolent rulers). In his haste to leave Rabanastre, he'd never retrieved them, never thought what would happen when someone (Vaan—it would invariably be Vaan) finally decided to go through his belongings. But of course they'd been found. And of course, of all the things he'd written, Vaan had picked up on the one detail Balthier hadn't meant seriously.

"You're not a fool, Vaan," he says quietly, for there is no apology that can rectify what he has inadvertently allowed the boy to believe. "Impulsive and stubborn, yes. But never a fool. Except for at this moment, as that is the very last thing I meant for you to take away from that letter, which should have been obvious to anyone with even a pinch of sense."

"Right. Because the rest of the letter was so much more believable. Like I'm really some sort of hero. If you hadn't noticed, my biggest role in what happened that day was flying the _Strahl. _I _ran away, _Balthier. Because you told me to. Because I thought you'd be right there with us, not on the _Bahamut_, trying to repair the glossair rings."

"Would you have rather I had let it fall and crush Rabanastre instead?" he asks. Not an accusation, merely a question.

Vaan opens his mouth, then snaps it shut, looking away. "Your letter said heroes don't make good sky pirates."

Despite the situation, Balthier finds himself smiling. This is perhaps the most honest he has ever been with the boy—it may be the most honest he will ever be with anyone. It is . . . freeing, to be so open. As freeing as taking to the skies for the first time. "Sky pirates run," he says. "Heroes stay and fight to the very end." He reaches out, touching the back of Vaan's hand (hesitating, though he never hesitates; uncertain, though he is never uncertain). "So, my little thief, now that you've had a few hours to think about what you want to do next, I have a question for you: Will you stay and fly with me, or will you go back home?"

Hope sparks in Vaan's eyes. "What kind of question is that? Of course I'm staying. We can send a message to Penelo and the rest of them next time we land."

Balthier's smile (a real smile now, with only a thin veneer of wry humor to it) grows wider. His little thief will stay. It is everything he could have hoped for. "Then fly we shall, until we claim all the world's treasures as our own."


	7. Lies Told in Letters

Chapter Seven

Balthier admits to himself that he is impressed with the little thief's tolerance for alcohol. Really, he'd expected Vaan to pass out within an hour at the rate they were drinking; the fact that he remains lucid is actually quite remarkable.

"Why didn't you open this?" Balthier asks, holding up the empty bottle. They discarded their game half an hour ago, and have since lapsed into the casual sort of conversation companions share after many months apart. "It certainly wasn't hard to find, so why not partake?"

Vaan shrugs, eyes far away. Another change. The boy Balthier met at the royal palace rarely stopped to think, and the distance in his expression seems out of place. "Didn't think you'd want me to open it."

He raises an eyebrow. "That's never stopped you from prying before."

Another shrug. "Why's it matter?"

"I'm curious, and you're evading the question. You believed me dead. What _I _might have wanted should have been no concern to you."

Vaan's eyes focus on his face, sharp and alert. Even after half a bottle of rum, he remains stubbornly unaffected, only a slight slur to his voice to indicate he's intoxicated at all. In fact, now that Balthier thinks about it (thinking _hard_, because though he is good at hiding it, he is not quite so unaffected by the alcohol he's consumed), Vaan is _too _clearheaded. "You've been casting Poisona on yourself to remove the alcohol from your system," he says.

The boy lifts his eyebrows, his expression innocent. Too innocent. "What makes you say that?"

"In the past hour alone, you've had six cups of rum. You should be sloppy or passed out by now, yet you're barely tipsy."

"Maybe I've built up a tolerance."

"Or perhaps you're lying."

Vaan's expression doesn't change as he shrugs. "It's not like you haven't done the same."

Irritation swells beyond the fog of drunkenness. Scowling, he calls to mind the matrix for a Poisona spell, tracing the air under the table with his fingers. It activates, but the effect is negligible. He's never been particularly good with magick. When it was the six of them traveling together, he could rely on Ashe or Penelo to handle that sort of thing. Even Fran, who specialized in weaponry, had more talent for it than he did. But it had never occurred to him that Vaan might have a knack for spellcasting. Perhaps that is his own pride (surely a child fresh off the streets could not have more of a talent for magick than him), or perhaps it is the fact that magick is a weapon for intellectuals, whereas swords and knives are weapons for people like Vaan.

"You," he says to Vaan, "are proving much more frustrating than I remember."

"It was because I didn't want to dull the pain."

The statement seems so irrelevant that it takes a solid minute for Balthier to understand that Vaan is explaining why he never opened the bottle of rum. Balthier suddenly wishes he were sober—at least then his wits would be working at full capacity. "Why not?" he asks at last, tired of trying to reason through it.

Vaan hesitates. "It hurt when you left," he says. "I had the _Strahl _to take care of, but it . . . it's just an airship, Balthier. Just a metal shell with some skystone and an engine. But the pain . . ." Eyes closed, he shook his head. "It was the only thing that felt real. It was the only thing that _mattered_. You were gone, and . . ." He closed his eyes, voice dropping to a whisper. "You were gone."

He is not sure which concern to address first: the bitter shadow of pain on Vaan's face or the fact that he just insulted the _Strahl. _He settles for the former. "I suppose I should apologize," he says, but no apologies make their way past his lips. Balthier is even worse at apologies than he is at magick.

"Yeah," Vaan says, getting to his feet. His eyes remain downcast as he walks out of the galley.

* * *

><p>"Have you made amends?" Fran asks when Balthier stumbles into the cockpit, still drunk. He sits down in the pilot's seat only to find the controls locked. Fran's doing, no doubt.<p>

"Made amends for what?" he asks, hoping to steer her away from the conversation. It is a futile attempt.

"If you cannot see how deep his scars run, perhaps you should invest in spectacles."

He makes a dismissive noise. His father wore spectacles. He thinks he'd rather go blind than have one more thing in common with the man.

* * *

><p>Not knowing where else to go, Vaan retreats into one of the passenger cabins, laying down the handful of things he was carrying on him when the <em>Strahl <em>took off in the middle of the night with Balthier at the helm.

Among those belongings is the note. Briefly, he considers burning it with a Fira spell. It would be a fitting end for the scrap of paper that has both held him together and made him bleed this past year. But even as he considers it, he knows he won't. Can't. Whatever.

Instead, he carefully unfolds it and reads it, the faded script taking on new meanings.

_"I am not, nor have I ever been, the heroic type." _

_"I__ take what I want, usually in a way that raises the bounty on my head, and I expect everyone else to do the same.___" __

__ " . . . heroes so rarely make good sky pirates." __

"Liar," he whispers, then tucks the letter back into his pocket.

* * *

><p>"So where are we going?"<p>

Balthier glances up from the controls, wary. The boy stands at the back of the cockpit, his expression opaque. The fact that he's so unruffled after how their last conversation ended is alarming enough to chase some of the fog from Balthier's mind. He really shouldn't be piloting the ship in his condition, but he cannot justify asking Fran to remain at the controls for another shift. Even viera, with all their mental discipline, cannot stay awake forever.

"Archades," he says shortly.

Vaan nods, crossing his arms expectantly. Balthier gives the book a look dripping with contempt, hoping it will make him go away. Vaan either doesn't notice or doesn't care. "You're still drunk."

"The ship's on autopilot," Balthier says. "I'm only here in case of emergency."

"I can handle things for a while if you want to catch a nap."

"Oh?" He raises an eyebrow. "I don't recall giving you permission to pilot my ship."

"Actually," Vaan says, quickly, like a sprung trap, "you did. That day when you left to repair the Bahamut so it wouldn't crash in the middle of the city. Remember?"

_Damn._ "You had the ship for a year," he says petulantly, "and you did nothing with it. That's hardly the treatment it deserves."

"Yeah, because being piloted by a drunk sky pirate is so much better."

The boy has a point, he admits to himself, relinquishing the controls. "If anything goes wrong, hit the alarm above the steering mechanism. It'll sound throughout the ship. That way, if we're about to crash, I can take over."

To his surprise, the boy doesn't make some dismissive comment or roll his eyes, but nods seriously. "I will. Goodnight."

He very nearly walks out without another word. But, he tells himself, it is important that he has the last word in this conversation, if only to subtly remind Vaan who's really in charge here. So he says, "Goodnight," and then heads to his chamber.

* * *

><p>All in all, Vaan is pleased with how things worked out. Balthier is good at lying, but he's prone to underestimating the perceptiveness of his companions. From their exchange, Vaan has reached several small but important revelations.<p>

The first: If forced to choose between his pride and the well-being of his airship, Balthier will choose the airship. Vaan supposes he could draw other conclusions from this—that Balthier equates the _Strahl_ with freedom, which is indeed more important than pride, or that the man is more sentimental than he appears.

The second: Like most people who are drunk, Balthier suffers impairment in his ability to reason. That is, after all, the only reason he would do something so stupid as flying an airship while inebriated. Also, he's not good enough at magick to purge the alcohol from his system.

The third: Balthier trusts him to pilot the ship, and in that trust Vaan can place a fragment of hope for . . . well, for things he cannot even admit to himself. Things he shouldn't want but does, things that plague his dreams and bring light to the darkest corners of his nightmares. Things . . . _feelings_ he is not ready to acknowledge but which are becoming harder to resist with every passing minute aboard the airship.

* * *

><p>Balthier wakes an hour before they touch down outside Archades. To his relief, the little thief has neither left his post nor managed to crash the airship in the six or so hours since Balthier left him, and he relinquishes the controls without argument at Balthier's request.<p>

"So what's in Archades?"

"Draklor Laboratories. Where else would we be going?"

"Is that a good idea?"

He glances over his shoulder to find Vaan standing inches behind him, close enough that he can feel the boy's body heat, smell the trace of desert air that clings to his clothes. The combination is distracting enough to banish the witty remark he was about to make from his mind, and instead, a pregnant silence fills the cockpit.

"Why Draklor?" Vaan asks, his voice careful, guarded.

"Why not?" The flippant reply does not deter the boy as he'd hoped. If nothing else, Vaan has grown patient in their year apart, and his soft grey eyes glimmer with expectation. Balthier's eyebrow begins to twitch. "I have unfinished business there."

"What business?"

_Making sure no one has started digging into my father's research_, he thinks, keeping his face neutral. "There are many things of value in the laboratory, any number of which would sell for a fortune on the black market. What other reason would I have to go?"

Nearly a minute passes, and Balthier thinks his little thief has decided to drop the subject. Then he hears the cockpit door sliding open behind him, followed by Vaan's voice. "He's gone, Balthier. Rebelling against a ghost doesn't do you any good."

Balthier wishes he had something to throw at the boy. Since he doesn't, he settles for staring sulkily at the controls as Vaan walks away. It's not an act of rebellion, he tells himself fiercely. His business in Draklor isn't personal in the slightest.

On the navigation screen, he notes the _Strahl's_ position and contacts the aerodome in Archades under the guise of a private airship. They relay a rehearsed speech about landing protocols, then guide him into the city's airspace.


	8. When to Run, How to Lie, Who to Trust

_Author's Notes:  
>Sorry for the wait, everyone. This chapter just <em>would not _cooperate. The next chapter should be finished soon. I owe a big thanks to everyone who's still reading, and an even bigger thanks to those who have reviewed! You guys make all the effort worth it._

* * *

><p>Chapter Eight<p>

Vaan returns in time to watch Balthier land the _Strahl. _After a year apart from his airship, Vaan expects Balthier to have trouble reacquainting himself with the controls, but the man guides the _Strahl_ effortlessly into the aerodome's hangar, touching down so gently that Vaan barely feels the impact.

Fran sits in the copilot's chair, her silver-white hair tumbling over her shoulders, and like Balthier, she looks utterly _right _in her seat, like she could stay there for a thousand years, untouched by the world. Vaan thinks about their brief visits to Eruyt Village, about how the viera there remain unmoved by the turnings of the world beyond. Fran may have left her village behind, but here, she recaptures that serenity. The airship is to her what the Wood is to the viera of her village.

No, only Vaan feels out of place, relegated to the second row, absently tapping his knees with his fingertips as he looks over Balthier's shoulder. It has been a long time (a year) since he was a passenger on this ship, and he cannot help but think that Balthier is a better pilot than he will ever be.

"How long will we stay in the city?" Fran asks, shutting off her monitor as Balthier powers down the engine.

"We infiltrate Draklor tonight after dark," Balthier replies firmly. "If at all possible, I'd like to leave before dawn tomorrow."

Vaan leans forward. "What are we going to do until tonight?"

Balthier glances back at him, a razor-thin smile touching his lips. His heartbeat quickens, thrumming in his neck, and he swallows hard. Rather than answering, Balthier stands, tilting his head toward the exit hatch. "I suppose I _could _tell you . . . but wouldn't you rather see for yourself?"

It is the same thing he said the first time Vaan ever laid eyes on the _Strahl, _and for a moment, it is as if he cannot breathe, cannot bring enough air into his lungs to speak. Mute, he follows Balthier to the exit hatch, Fran loping after them. They emerge into a vast room rimmed with mechanical equipment, and a team of moogles appears from a half-sized door near the edge of the room.

"The works," Balthier says, tossing them a pouch of gil without so much as glancing in their direction, along with a pass card which will allow them into the engine room.

Vaan watches them file in through the _Strahl's _entry hatch, then turns back to Balthier. "I always thought you and Fran took care of the maintenance."

"Most often, we do," Fran says. "But what we know of the ship, we learned during our travels. There are things a professional crew can do that we cannot."

Balthier stretches. "Besides, so long as we have the option available to us, we may as well take advantage." Then he frowns, as if something has just occurred to him. "By the way, how _did _you manage to keep the _Strahl _in such good condition while Fran and I were away?"

He grimaces. "Penelo did most of the repairs. The ship took a lot of damage during the battle for Rabanastre." Even though he stands less than five paces from Balthier, he shudders at the memory. "Those first few months, she did a lot of research, figuring out how to get everything working again. She probably knows the engine room almost as well as you do."

Balthier stops suddenly as they step out into the main plaza, turning to him. "First rule of being a sky pirate: _Never _leave your mechanic behind. If you step foot onto the ship, so should they."

His eyebrows slant. "It's not like I left the engine running . . ." he mutters as they start walking. Clusters of people—mostly Archadians, though he sees a few people who look like they might be from Dalmasca, or even Rozarria—mill around, checking luggage, claiming baggage, buying tickets. Compared to the convenience of a private airship, it seems like a big hassle. The Archades aerodome is more crowded than the one in Rabanastre, and almost at once, old instincts resurface. Within a bare handful of seconds, he identifies several easy targets to pickpocket, constructs a strategy for each grab, and reminds himself that he doesn't _need _to pickpocket anymore.

He feels the flutter of watching eyes. His head snaps up, but before the alarm can turn into paranoia, he realizes it's Balthier watching him, a faint smirk on his face. "What?" Vaan asks, a little defensively.

"Would I be correct in guessing that you've yet to give up your sticky-fingered tendencies?"

_Am I that obvious? _He laced his fingers behind his head, adopting a casual gait. "What d'you mean?"

"Don't be thick. Wait until we're outside. Security's tight in the aerodomes."

They weave through the bustling crowd. Here and there, Vaan glimpses armored men—imperial soldiers, he notes, an ember of old anger flaring in his chest. Not as many as there would have been a year ago, but enough that Balthier's advice is well-founded.

Of course, Balthier has a habit of underestimating him. By the time they leave the aerodome, Vaan has lifted three pouches of gil, a delicate gold bracelet, and a gold-plated fountain pen, all without anyone raising an alarm. Pickpocketing is the skill that kept him from starving to death on the streets, and his fingers are as quick and clever as ever.

"Fran, would you mind picking up a few things?" Balthier asks, handing Fran a folded up sheet of parchment. "I've a few errands to run, and if we want to be out of this city by dawn, we'll need to split up to cover more ground."

Fran surveys the list, gives Balthier a faintly reproachful look, and says, "Shall we meet here at sunset?"

"Sunset it is."

They split up, Fran heading toward Molberry, Balthier walking toward Trant. Vaan trails after the sky pirate, reflecting on the differences between Archades and Rabanastre. Certain parts of Rabanastre were always crowded—the Muthruu Bazaar, the fountain, the shops in East End—but where those areas seem lively, the crowds of Archades are more restrained. There are no commoners here, only aristocrats. The first time he'd been here, he'd thought them callous—if Ashe, the rightful princess of Dalmasca, can cut her way through jungles, plains, deserts, and mountains, then he sees no reason for the nobility here to act so prim and proper, especially when the slums are within an hour's walking distance.

"This place hasn't changed at all, has it?"

Balthier's eyes flicker to him. "It's difficult for a city so rotten to do anything but continue to decay, even with a benevolent emperor at its core." He slows, lowering his voice. "Be careful. The people here may wield words instead of swords, but if you're not cautious, you'll find that a well-placed rumors can get you killed as quickly as an assassin's blade. Ah, here we are." His voice brightens as they reach a cozy brick building nestled between two sleek, shining towers. An awning pokes out from the stonework, faded by the elements, tattered at the edges, and the windows are etched with fancy lettering. Here in Archades, city of steel and secrets, the little shop looks out of place, but Balthier pushes the door open and steps inside, so Vaan follows.

The scent of ink and parchment permeates the air, and several tables of knickknacks and other oddities dot the spaces not occupied by bookshelves. "What is this place?" he asks.

"A bookstore."

"I figured that much out," Vaan says, annoyed. "But why are _we _here?"

"To buy books." Without any further explanation, Balthier heads toward the back of the bookstore. For a moment, Vaan thinks this must be some secret meeting place for sky pirates or informants—that there must be a back room where people get together to trade secrets, or that the clerk minding the shop will direct them to a place where they can get in touch with the black market—but from the way Balthier pages through several tomes without a word makes it seem like book-buying is truly their only purpose here.

Vaan waits, reminded of the years before his parents died, when they would bring him and Reks with them on shopping trips because they were too young to be left alone. It doesn't take him long to grow bored, but he's no longer a child, so he keeps his complaints to himself, still half-expecting something more exciting to happen.

Still, he's never been all that patient, so after about five minutes of standing around, he finally speaks. "Okay, what are we _really _doing here?"

"I never was a particularly good mentor to you, was I?" The words are soft. Almost . . . regretful.

Vaan looks away. "You taught me more than you probably think." _When to run. How to lie. Who to trust with your life but not your coin-purse. _

Balthier assembles a stack of books, then hands them to Vaan. "One of the most important parts of being a sky pirate is knowing how to blend in. This won't be the last time you find yourself among nobility. Aristocrats make lucrative targets, but if you want to get close to them, it pays to be . . . cultured."

He bristles a little. "I can be cultured."

The man raises an eyebrow. "As cultured as a rat in a restaurant, perhaps." Balthier shakes his head, laying another book on the stack. "These are some of Archadia's more influential classics. Being able to reference them will make you seem educated, and quoting them may even do something about that accent of yours."

"I don't have an accent," he mutters. "And it's not like I've had any formal education anyway. What's the point? Everything I need to know, I've learned by doing."

Irritation sweeps across Balthier's face. He crosses his arms, adopting the scornful stance Vaan saw a hundred times in the year they spent together (and missed every day in the year they were not). "Do you want to be my apprentice or not?"

"Of course I do," he says, though he wants so much more than that, wants Balthier's admiration, wants to be worthy of Balthier's respect, wants those moments when the man looks at him not as a child or a fool but as if he's the only person in the world, like the world itself could cease to exist so that it's only the two of them, standing still in a maelstrom of chaos.

"Then do as I say," Balthier tells him, then tosses a pouch of gil to the shop clerk. "I need these sent to the aerodome—the private packages line."

"Of course, sir." The man begins wrapping the books in paper, tying each package with a length of string and sliding them carefully into bags. It's more fuss than Vaan has ever seen anyone show a bunch of books, and he once again wonders how anyone gets anything done around here when they're so concerned about acting proper.

"Your books will be waiting for you upon your return, sir."

"Excellent." Balthier turns toward the door. "Come along, Vaan. We haven't time to dawdle."

"_I'm _not the one dawdling," he mutters, but his words are lost to the chime of the door, and even if Balthier has heard him, he offers no response.


End file.
